“Not quite,” he rumbled. “They want the purest form. The Drakoryte gem. The one the seed transforms into. It’s an ancient technique, Sylvie. It requires precision. A skilled blacksmith. The actual instructions? They’ve been gone.”
She was a baker. She dealt withmille-feuilleand profiteroles, not ancient dragon forging.
Then something clicked.
“The book,” she breathed.
She crossed the room in a blur, grabbing “101 Ways to Work the Flame”from the shelf.
She’d been so focused on the baking, but she’d seen those strange side notes—the ones she’d brushed off as gibberish.
He frowned, watching her flip through the pages. “Sylvie, that’s a cookbook.”
“Not only.” She slapped the book open to a marked page. “Look at the annotations in the margins. I ignored them because I’m human and I don’t breathe fire, but look—someone has scribbled references to heritage forging.”
She flicked through the pages. “Here.” She pointed to the drawing of a stone labeledDrakoryte.
He leaned over her shoulder.
“They’re fragmented,” he murmured, his breath hot against her neck. “But... it might be enough.”
“We have the map,” she insisted, turning to look at him.
His gaze shifted to her, the amber turning molten, glowing gold. He pulled her close, his hands heavy and sure on her waist.
“You...” His voice dropped into that rough, territorial edge. “You are extraordinary.”
She steadied herself against the hard planes of his chest, her pulse jumping. “I have a fire oven at the bakery that hits the right temperatures. And I know exactly which grumpy blacksmith can handle the smithing.”
***
By the time they reached Flour & Fire, dusk had settled over Honeybay. Vera and Bobby were already waiting inside. Bobby looked deeply suspicious. —clearly he was expecting a tray of croissants and not a piece of ancient dragon history. Arla and Julian had tagged along too, claiming “moral support,” though Julian looked far too excited.
The oven was already roaring. Vera had pushed it to the absolute limit. When she saw the book in Sylvie’s hands, her green eyes went wide. “I hope you didn’t have to wrestle any beasts for that.”
“No,” Sylvie laughed, slightly breathless. “Only a very enthusiastic self-taught baker.” She smirked at Bobby.
Bobby huffed, lifting a pair of heavy-duty tongs. “I brought the tools. Still not sure what kind of cake needs a three-pound iron grip.”
Vera reached for a carved wooden box and lifted the lid. Sylvie expected something sparkling and breathtaking. Instead, it was a dull, matte-gray stone. Ordinary.
“A Drakoryte seed,” Bobby whispered, his voice full of rare, quiet reverence.
“It looks like... well, a rock,” Sylvie noted.
“It hasn’t met its fire yet,” Arla said seriously.
“The magic happens in the resistance,” Rhavor added, his gaze fixed on the seed with a mix of awe and unease. “They’re nearly extinct now.”
“Collectors would kill for this,” Arla added dryly.
“And we’re supposed to... bake it?” Sylvie asked, her brow furrowing.
“We burn it,” Vera corrected. “We don’t melt it. We don’t crack it. We burn it until the outer shell fractures and the core decides to show itself.”
Bobby stepped forward, his eyes gleaming with manic smithing energy. “And then I yank it out at the exact heartbeat, turning it into a pure Drakoryte gem.”
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” Sylvie noted.
